A Yorkshire Christmas
by CeeCeeSings
Summary: A little holiday epilogue to A Yorkshire Summer! We'll check in with all of our faves. Probably will be a dozen or so chappies, filled with fluffiness, family and holiday fun. Heavy Chelsie, Richobel and Baxley, with Thomas and Francis (OC) of course!
1. A Midnight Clear

**Chapter 1 – A Midnight Clear**

 **Early December 1927**

 **A/N: I've been gone awhile, guys, and it's really nice to be back. No matter what, I love returning to these characters, this writing, and most of all, this fandom. This is, of course, a little epilogue to A Yorkshire Summer, revisiting all of our favorites a few months later as the Christmas season approaches, the first for many of them together as couples! I've not forgotten about "A Little Unsteady" and plan on updating that soon as well!**

 **Happy happy and merry merry, everyone!**

 **~CeeCee**

He wasn't really paying attention to the book he was holding, and the typeface blurred before his eyes, as hazy and unfocused as his thoughts. He knew Elsie would be home late this evening, what with today's arrival of the Marquis and Marchioness of Hexam at Downton for the duration of the holiday season.

He pondered Lady Edith for a moment, how changed she was, from the gawky girl always in her pretty, charming sisters' shadows, to the rather needy and desperate young woman she had been, for so long, to a woman who'd been both jilted and abandoned by different men, like an afterthought.

But how changed she was, now. Somehow, seamlessly, spanning the enormous gap between modernity and tradition. She outranked them all at the great house yonder but somehow, _also_ ran several successful newspapers throughout England.

 _Life changes us, you know that, you old fool,_ he thought, glancing up at the wall clock. _Nearly midnight. Elsie ought to be back by now._ He wasn't worried about her, not quite yet, but he would be soon, if she didn't make an appearance.

He stood and stretched, giving up his book for good. He grabbed two wine glasses from the kitchen, humming along with the Victrola, thinking of all of the late-night drinks they had shared over the years, and simply grateful that these glasses, tonight, would be shared in their living room, together.

As he crossed the kitchen back to the cottage's sitting room, he heard Elsie's teasing voice coming up the short walk to the front door. A low rumble confirmed what he expected and appreciated: Thomas Barrow had walked her home. He set the tray down and met them at the door.

"Well, hello there, Mr. Carson," Elsie teased, and jumped a little. She was grinning up at him, the tip of her nose pink with the cold. Thomas Barrow stood at the end of the walk, grinning and squinting past the plume of smoke from his cigarette.

"Thank you, Mr. Barrow, for walking Mrs. Hughes home," he nodded at the younger man. _Talk about a change._ Thomas Barrow was nothing like the man he'd been, not even a year prior. He knew much of it had to do with his…friendship…with that fine haberdasher, Mr. Holmes. _The less I know about that, I believe, the better. But good luck to them, I suppose._ Something in him couldn't unknot the situation any further than that, but he couldn't deny the vast improvement in the current butler's demeanor, and he did, grudgingly, care for the man. It was impossible not to after knowing him so long, he supposed.

That, or he was getting soft. He grinned in response to his wife. _That's definitely it._

"Yes, indeed Mr. Barrow, I thank you for your company through the wilds of Downton proper and village," Elsie's eyes were twinkling, sliding back and forth between the two men. He noticed Thomas was fighting the urge to grin at his wife, something he'd given up on a long time ago. "And thank you for the stimulating conversation, as well."

And now Thomas Barrow did laugh, out loud. "Any time, Mrs. Hughes."

"Stimulating?" He furrowed his brow at both of them, but he, too, was fighting back laughter.

"Inside, Mr. Carson, ye're not dressed for the chill in the air," she flapped her hands playfully at him. "I hope ye've got a glass of wine waiting, I'll certainly need it after the evening we've had, am I right, Mr. Barrow?"

"Indeed, Mrs. Hughes. I, for one, am certainly glad that all and sundry are well-settled for the evening," he replied.

"And now, off for your own drink, Mr. Barrow, before you must return to the fray," she smiled at him. "Please do give my regards to Mr. Holmes, and remind him, he's to bring dessert to dinner on Sunday."

And with a smile and a nod, she pushed Charlie back inside and shut the door.

oooOOOooo

Elsie wiggled her toes inside of her favorite socks, the thick wool ones Charlie had gotten her their first Christmas together, complaining bitterly how cold her feet were as he did. She padded into the sitting room, where he was waiting in his dressing gown with their wine.

She didn't, as a general rule, change for bed upon arrival at the cottage, but it was so very late, and she, so very tired. And her socks were so _warm._ She laughed.

He looked up at her and smiled. "How was it today?"

"Madness and mayhem, but they'll settle in, and not rub against each other too much, I expect," she smiled back and took the glass he proffered. "Ye ought to be in bed, Charlie. It's late, love."

"You say that, Elsie, as if I could sleep without you beside me," he stood, and her heart rolled in her chest, the sound of such things still so wonderful, so novel, even after two years and more of marriage.

"Aye, ye did just fine for years without me there, Mr. Carson," she retorted, but stepped towards him, wrapping her free arm around his middle, taking any sting out of the words.

"Did I, though?"

"Yes, ye did, well enough, as did I," she gazed up at him. He took her wine from her, set it on the side table by their worn red velvet sofa.

"You always did well, Elsie. But me? I'm not so sure..." his eyebrow went up, but so did the corner of his mouth.

"Well _I_ am. 'Twas nothing wrong with us before, despite everything being so right in the present," she replied, and his hand found her braid, sitting on her should, and began unraveling it. She leaned into the movement of his fingers, and wiggled her toes again, warmly ensconced in her wool socks.

 _Nothing wrong at all here,_ she thought, then pulled her husband's face down to press her lips against his.


	2. Chances

Chapter 2 – Chances

 **A/N: It's swell to be back, everyone. Thanks for reading and reviewing. This is most definitely an ensemble piece, so rotating POV will be on throughout!**

 **~CeeCee**

Richard Clarkson knew he should be exhausted, body and mind, but he couldn't quite feel it, at least not yet, as he left Downton Cottage Hospital. He adjusted the tweed cap he was wearing to better protect the tips of ears, which were chilled by the night air, and glanced up at the star-scattered sky above. The evening was crisp but still, the perfect early winter night.

He hurried along the mostly empty village streets, turning towards the modest brick house he had called "home" for nearly two decades, his breath preceding him in thick plumes. The place truly had been home, just as this village had been, but what a different home it had been the past few months!

He laughed aloud, an unselfconscious, joyful sound, as he reached his front door. A quiet, sleeping household would certainly greet him, so he did his best to enter soundlessly.

Then chuckled as he shut the door behind him.

He could hear humming, a slightly off-key alto, coming from the study towards the end of the hall, then pages rustling, the same voice muttering something under her breath. He rid himself of his outerwear and headed towards the sound with the giddiness of a green lad at the doorstep of his sweetheart's house.

Isobel was sitting at the desk, her dressing gown-clad figure illuminated by the golden halo of light coming from the small lamp thereupon. Her bronze-colored hair was half undone, tumbling about her shoulders, her face creased in concentration, bent over one of the large medical folios that lined the shelves of the cozy room. Her finger traced along a particularly detailed diagram, and then she sighed with satisfaction.

"Aha!" She poked the illustration for good measure, then began writing in earnest again.

"Ye've solved it all, have you?" He questioned from the doorway.

"Richard! Goodness! You scared the wits out of me!" She gasped, dropping her pencil. Her face crunched in consternation for a moment, then broke into a sunny grin. "Hello. How are you? It's terribly late, is it not?"

She stood and glanced over at the wall clock, her forehead furrowing again. And she looked so lovely, so very dear to him, he couldn't help himself; he crossed the room in three great strides and wrapped his arms around her, pressing his cold lips against her warm ones.

She yelped. "You're so cold!"

"And _you're_ so warm," he retorted, kissing her again. "What on earth are you still doing awake?"

He brushed his hand across her cheek, tucking a stray wave behind her ear. He looked at her for a long moment, the reality of his new life washing over him, as it did, often, in the past few weeks and months. Sometimes, it was impossible to believe this was all _real._

She was here, his wife, in his house, _their_ house. She'd surprised him, yes, _really surprised_ him, when she told him she wanted it this way. She was ready to leave Crawley House and seemed willing to shed much of what connected her to the big house above and beyond. And she'd not changed it much once she arrived, this house of his. Oh, there were newer curtains at the windows, slightly lusher bedding in their shared room upstairs, more vases of flowers scattered about the place. But in essentials, save one, she'd not interfered with the place he'd called home all these years.

His maid-of-all-work was here more often, as was Mariah, her maid from Crawley House, but neither of them lived in. She still used young Jack Davis, her driver, regularly, but Richard suspected it was more because she liked the lad rather than out of perceived necessity. They had a cook in several times a week to prepare teas and suppers, but usually, it was him steeping the tea and her boiling the eggs each morning, the pair of them moving around his modest, bright kitchen with the ease of a couple who had dwelt together far, far longer than three scant months.

"I've decided, I think," her face had that _look._ The one that both irritated and inspired him.

"Do tell, then, Mrs. Clarkson," he answered, his mouth twitching. Oh, how he loved calling her that!

"Well, that's just it. I've decided it should be _Dr._ Clarkson, going forward," she grinned up at him, and kissed him again.

oooOOOooo

"Richard?"

"Isobel?"

She tucked her head in the crook where his arm and shoulder met, breathing in the smell of him, relishing the feeling of his skin against her cheek. She tried to ignore the little voice deep at the center of her, the one that often wanted to be heard, the one that sounded like a harsher, younger version of herself, trying to remind her of how many mistakes she'd made, how much time she'd wasted, in getting here, this warm bed with this Scottish doctor she'd known for nearly two decades.

 _I am here now, so quiet, you,_ she thought, and laughed.

"What is it?" She could hear the smile in his voice, but kept her face pressed against his shoulder.

"I mean it, you know. I want to go all the way, not just the nursing certificate," she started.

"Believe me, Isobel, no one understands your decisiveness the way I do," he replied, and now his hand alit on her hair. "As I've said before, I think this town could handle _two_ Dr. Clarksons just fine."

"As will the Crawleys, I believe," she pondered. It wasn't her family at Downton that was preoccupying her.

"If you were going to scandalize them, I believe you'd have already, don't you?" Now he was laughing.

"Enough of that," she answered. "I…I…actually wasn't thinking about the town or my family, I'm ashamed to say."

"Shame isn't your style."

"No, it's not, you're right," she propped herself on one arm so she could look at him. "Probably to a fault, most likely. I want to do this, for myself, Richard, and because I know I can."

"There's nothing to prove, you know," he answered, and she could see both amusement and warmth in his eyes. "Neither in your desire to do the thing, or in actually doing it, Izzy."

The pet name, very sparingly used, flooded her eyes with unwanted tears. There were many, many things she wanted to say to this man, who had been such a steady friend to her for so long, who was now her husband and her lover, facts that were both startling and fundamental to her.

What came out of her mouth, however, was: "Reg would be so proud of me. Matthew, too, I know, but I keep thinking about Reg, and that's terribly wrong of me."

"Is _that_ what the fuss is about?" His hand, which has been resting in her hair, cupped her cheek. "You do realize, Mrs. Clarkson, I am aware you've been married a time or two before."

She laughed, tears still spilling down her cheeks, and pushed at him. "That's not very gentlemanly, Richard, teasing a lady when she's in tears." She swiped the offending things away.

"Ah, but you forget, I am no gentlemen…nor, my dear, are you any longer a lady," he was chuckling, but then grew serious. "Isobel, I shouldn't tease, I agree. I hope you understand me when I say I am _glad_ for Reginald Crawley's existence in your life, for the son you had together. You deserved a love like that, a marriage like that, a child…"

He drifted off. She thought of Matthew, and she knew he was thinking of Sorcha, his first wife, and the baby that had taken both of their lives whilst being born, all those years ago.

"I don't know if I deserve this, however," she whispered, pressing her fingers against the tickly wires of his mustache. His breath was warm on the palm of her hand. "This chance, these chances."

"Maybe you don't," he answered, and she could feel his lips curling under her hand, his tone teasing. "But _I_ certainly do, after all this time."

And they were both laughing when he pulled her down towards him.


	3. Rest

Chapter 3 – Rest

 **A/N: It's been a very, very, very long time since I've sat down and written some good ol' fanfic. It felt like it was time to pick these threads up again and start weaving them together into something worthwhile.**

 **Nota Bene: If you are reading this and aren't entirely sure who Frances is, it would benefit to read the precursor to this story, "A Yorkshire Summer." These two lovebirds' meeting and courtship is told therein.**

 **~CeeCee**

After he left Downton's housekeeper at her doorstep grinning up at her husband, he hurried his pace towards Downton Village proper. It was later than usual, far later than he was used to arriving at the Lion. And tomorrow was a working day, for both he and Frances, though he, of course, had the earlier start and the shorter end of the stick, accordingly.

He pulled his pocket watch out, consulting the small hands on its face and his own exhaustion. It was decided; all he wanted was to wash his face and fall into Frances' waiting bed. Hopefully, his lover would already be back from his evening out. If not, the delicious, still-new certainty that he would return home, to Thomas waiting for him, was guaranteed.

Thomas paused briefly at the turn off the promenade by the village square, once again considering a drink and a smoke and a chat with any friends still pulled up at the bar, or in the cozy snug in the back at the Lion. But his tiredness and that still-novel contentedness overwhelmed him, and he walked up the side street leading to Frances' modest, attractive home.

He pulled the key to the front door out of his pocket, with the small thrill he always felt when doing so.

 _He was welcome here, no, more than that – he was_ wanted _here. Perhaps even necessary._

This knowledge, this feeling, was simply so fresh, and so foreign to his experiences up until the past half-year, to the hungry inner demons that had chased him most of his life, that his mind refused to allow it to be simply _be._ He wondered how long it would take for him to do so.

The minute he turned from closing the door, he saw Frances' overcoat and hat hanging on their hooks in the short front hallway. Something inside of him relaxed and he took his time hanging his own things next to the other man's. He moved comfortably through the short hall and past the dim but cozy sitting room. He poured himself a glass of water and drank it, standing in the clean, neat kitchen, with its checked curtains and small china bowl of late apples sitting on the sideboard.

It was so calm here. So safe. So domestic. He laughed and rinsed his glass carefully, then headed towards the bedroom. He stood in the doorway, listening to the sound of Frances' deep breaths pulling in and out, seeing his broad form, turned away from the door and towards the window, rise and fall rhythmically in sleep, lined in moonlight.

He shed all but his most inner layer of clothing quickly, knowing he _should_ wash his face and scrub his neck and a whole host of other pre-bedtime ablutions, but he couldn't be bothered; he had precious few hours here and he simply wanted to rest. He climbed under the layers of blankets and burrowed down, pressing his nose to Frances' warm back. Inhaled.

He smiled a little to himself and the world was fading, getting fuzzy and warm and dim.

"You didn't go for a drink, then?" Frances' soft question startled him to wakefulness.

"I thought you were asleep," he pressed himself closer and threw his hand over the other man's barrel chest.

"I was, nearly. Possibly, actually asleep," Frances laughed and squeezed his hand. "I debated waiting for you, but I wound up urgently having to escort Clarke home."

"Clarke? Really?" Their friend, Victoria Clarke, was one of Frances' finest tailors. She also was, in Thomas' experience, a relatively moderate drinker.

"Wasn't drink," Frances turned around and faced him. "It was heartbreak." He paused, running his hand across Thomas' cheek. "Sally's getting married." He sighed.

Thomas pushed himself into a half-sitting position. "To a man?"

Frances chuckled. It was a forlorn sound. "That's the only option, isn't it? One of each, a boy and a girl, at the altar." He sighed again, his fingers still rubbing Thomas' temple.

Thomas' tired brain was catching up to his lover's words. Clarke and Sally Hutchins, who worked for the phone company as a typist, had been inseparable for...well…let's see. The better part of two years, the best Thomas could sort out. Clarke was a bit younger than he and Frances, and Sally younger still, so their relationship did seem, well, more lighthearted at times.

But this. This truly surprised him. He realized he hadn't spoken for a few moments, but Frances helped him along.

"Some bloke from her office," Frances shrugged, but his face was sad. And angry. "Apparently, he'd been wooing her for at least half a year. Clarke had no idea, none." Now he was sitting, they both leaned against the headboard."

"How is she? Clarke, I mean?" Thomas realized with a start that Sally's affair had been going on at least as long as he'd known Frances. He thought to a few months back, when the two women had taught the Molesleys how to Charleston in Frances' uncle's living room, their laughter spilling into the back garden.

"Not good," Frances sighed a third time. "I had a mind to bring her back here, to keep an eye on her, but she simply refused. She's…dazed. No tears, no anger, no sadness. Not yet, at least. She's cocooned herself in nothingness. It was like conversing with a mannequin, Thomas."

You'll watch out for her at the shop," Thomas answered. "The pair of us, we'll prop her up at the Lion. As for Sally, I hope she doesn't dare show her face there any longer." Steel entered his voice, and his heart. He was suddenly shaking with anger.

"Wait…wait. Really, Thomas, take a deep breath before you make this entirely Sally's fault," Frances paused. "I'm angry as well, at the whole situation. But I am not sure that Sally should shoulder all of our collective wrath."

"She could have been more honest with Clarke," Thomas answered, stroking Frances' beard. "When she saw where it was heading, I mean. I understand why she chose what she did, but I can't approve of the execution of her decision."

"I suppose since our lives all have a certain amount of…subterfuge…some of us get used to keeping secrets. To keeping things tidily organized into 'can have' and 'not for the likes of me.' Sally wanted to get married, Clarke said. She wants…a family. Children. And I don't think she's entirely disinclined towards blokes. At least, not this particular fellow. She'll make a go of it, which is the best most of us can do, in any case."

Thomas pressed his lips together and swallowed, hard. His throat clicked painfully. "She loves Clarke. And Clarke adores her. I suppose a few kiddies are worth the price of losing that?"

"That's not fair," Frances replied gently.

"No, it isn't. None of it."

"It's late, and you need to be up early."

"I need a villain, Frances. I need someone to rage at, to plot against," Thomas laughed. It was tinged with hysteria. "You can't look at me and tell me you agree with what Sally's done."

"I don't," France shook his head. "But I understand it. That's enough."

"No, it's not. You'd never choose it, for yourself," he heard himself. He sounded bitter. His heart ached for his friend. He would ask Elsie Hughes tomorrow, after breakfast at the big house, if Victoria could join them all for dinner at the Carsons' on Sunday. She needed someone like the housekeeper – and Phyllis Molesley – to fuss over her, even if they weren't sure exactly why.

"No, Thomas, I would never choose what Sally chose. If the world were different, I would choose _you_ , Thomas Barrow, you tired, cross, lovely prat. I would stand before that fabled altar and marry _you,_ without a regret in the world."

His heart soared. But for some reason, the words he spoke were coarse and unkind. "Easy to say, isn't it, Frances? Easy to say, when it will never happen, it can never happen. As you said, the requirement for such a thing is one of each, not a matching pair." He realized he was crying.

"You _are_ in rare form tonight, aren't you?" Frances answered mildly. "What would you choose, then, oh wise one?"

"This, of course, _this,_ " his answered was muffled in the other man's chest as Frances embraced him. "To be beside you, as many nights as this world allows."

"Exactly," Frances answered, stroking his hair. "Exactly. Now rest."


	4. All Together Now

Chapter 4 – All Together Now

 **A/N: Thank you all for the warm return, here and on Tumblr. Most of the fics I write, I have a general outline of where they're going. Usually, what winds up happening is each fic shows me its "Northern Star" so to speak. For "A Yorkshire Summer" it wound up being The Red Lion and everyone's experiences surround it. For this story…well, again, I didn't really have a plan! Whoops. But I think I found it's guiding force in this chapter. ~CeeCee**

"Mrs. Hughes! Mrs. Hughes!"

Elsie turned at the sound of her name, stopping in the middle of the downstairs hallway near the kitchen. She was being beckoned boisterously by Ladies Mary and Edith, who wore matching grins of excitement.

 _My, how times have changed,_ she thought, then said aloud. "Yes, m'ladies? I have a feeling whatever it is you need from me, it's bound to be rather pleasant." The two younger women let out peels of laughter and shared a conspiratorial glance.

"It is, Mrs. Hughes, very much so," Lady Mary replied, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow. Her gaze caught something further down the hall, and she called out. "Barrow! Lovely, there you are. Might we discuss our plans with both of you? We promise not to take up too much of your time."

"Well, not too much of your time _this evening,_ " Lady Edith chimed in, still grinning.

"Of course, m'ladies," Thomas responded, shooting Elsie an imperceptible look – _what's all this, then?_ – and she bit her cheek to keep from laughing. From the sounds of it, whatever the sisters had planned would likely be a source of pleasure for them, and likely, the source of much labor for herself and the butler. "Let's go into my office, shall we?"

"We were thinking, Mary and I, that we'd like to host a Christmas concert," Lady Edith beamed at them. "Something that the family can created, and, perhaps, some of the villagers can participate in."

"Yes, and of course, a pageant and crèche for the children," Mary added, more out of enthusiasm than rudeness towards her sister.

"We were talking of during the war, the charity concerts we used to hold here," Edith added, and Elsie saw Mary's face cloud over ever-so-slightly. Elsie heard the ghost of a song in her head: _If you were the only girl in the world, and I were the only boy…_ and her heart squeezed in her chest, thinking of Matthew Crawley, of William Mason. "It's…it's not easy, of course, to think back to that time, but they were lovely, weren't they, the concerts?"

And she did something Elsie thought she'd never see as long as she lived. She squeezed her sister's hand. Thomas Barrow made a small sound and she pointedly didn't catch his gaze. The laughter was close again.

"They were, indeed, m'lady, and I think it's a grand idea," Elsie began. "What exactly did you have in mind?" _And how many extra hours will I be working between now and Christmas?_

"Well, as Edith says, Mrs. Hughes, we are thinking of a formal recital, with instrumental and vocal performances," Mary began. "Additionally, a pageant for the children, and some carols, and perhaps, St. Nicholas making an appearance at the end of it all, giving out gifts?"

"Papa, you mean," Edith looked amused.

"Yes, either he or Carson, I was thinking," Mary responded, her eyes twinkling with mischief, and now Elsie couldn't help it: she did burst out laughing. The younger woman smirked at her a little and joined her.

"As long as I won't be expected to enter the fray for that particular position, m'ladies, I will assist in any way I can," Thomas said dryly. And they all laughed for a moment.

"Well, I shan't lie to you, it will be quite an undertaking, and we've not nearly the staff we had during the war," Elsie began. "But I think it's a lovely idea, and Mr. Barrow and I will help manage any element of the production that's necessary. And St. Nicholas or no, you know Mr. Carson will throw in any way you ask! We can see if a few of the lads in the stable want extra time, they can help build the crèche and any other sets you need. Perhaps Mr. Molesley can write a simple script for the children to learn. And Mrs. Molesley can assist with costuming, of course. And I do believe her friends, the tailors from the haberdashery in Rippon, wouldn't mind some extra work. And they're divine with a needle and thread, Mr. Carson sings their praises, and you know how difficult he is to please."

Elsie shot a glance at Thomas, who was smiling at her in an entirely different way than he'd been a few minutes ago, his face soft and thoughtful.

"You're not wrong, Mrs. Hughes, I've dealt with them myself often, and you'd be hard-pressed to find better costumers, m'ladies. I know the owner, Mr. Holmes, and I'll inquire as to his availability for the project," Thomas added, throwing a glance her way.

"Well, I think we've made a good start, then," Mary clapped her hands together. "We'll have to consider performers, of course; Edith will play and I will sing a few pieces. I plan on convincing Tom to join me for at least one number, and I know Henry never will. Dare I ask, Mrs. Hughes, do you think Carson would honor us with a song? I've heard the legends of his serenade at your wedding hooley."

"M'lady, I believe you can nearly guarantee it, if it's you doing the requesting."

"We should ask Dr. Clarkson as well, Mary. He has a fine singing voice," Edith suggested.

"Oh, lord, I suppose we should, but heaven forfend if he and Isobel put up a duet for us," Mary rolled her eyes as the two sisters exited Thomas' study. "In any case, Mrs. Hughes, Barrow, let's meet this Thursday to really iron out a plan. There's much to do, and not much time for it to be done!"

And with that, the sisters disappeared down the hall and up the stairs.

"Shall we have a friendly wager, then, Mrs. Hughes, as to who ends up as St. Nick?"

"Watch yourself, Mr. Barrow, or I'll make certain it's you," Elsie retorted, and Thomas laughed.

"Don't I know what you're capable of, when you've a mind for scheming," he responded.

"Scheming? Me? You must be thinking of someone else entirely, Mr. Barrow," she shook her head. Grinning.

"It was good of you to add Francis to the mix, and Clarke as well," Thomas' voice became soft.

"Well, it seems like your friend Miss Clarke could use a pleasant distraction," Elsie replied. "Not limited to joining us all for dinner on Sunday, mind you, and I expect her there." She paused, dared to be personal with this man, whom she often felt motherly towards, for a brief minute.

"And it seems to me, Mr. Barrow, it would be rather pleasant – rather _Christmassy –_ for Mr. Holmes to be at Downton, now and again, for the season. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Wholeheartedly, Mrs. Hughes. Wholeheartedly."


	5. A Small Toast

**Chapter 5 – A Small Toast**

 **A/N: Once again, there has been FAR too much time between chapter on this dear story, and I plan to treat it more tenderly, going forward. The next few chapters might be shorter than usual, as I want to rotate POV a few times during this Sunday dinner party. It's far to long to put into one chappie. ~ CeeCee**

The Carsons' modest little cottage was filled with far more people than had any right to be attending dinner in the simple space. It was loud, it was raucous, it was a bit cramped, and it certainly wasn't proper.

Elsie didn't care one whit about propriety. She was enjoying herself immensely. So much so that she merely shrugged at the stack of dirty dishes piling up on her sideboard.

"I'll assist with those, of course, Mrs. Carson," Isobel Clarkson was at her elbow. Elsie was once again struck by how _right_ the other woman looked dressed far more simply, if still fashionably, than she had in the past fifteen years.

"I hardly think it will come to that, La- Mrs. Clarkson," she answered. He'd never admit it in company, but Mr. Carson's become quite adept in domestic necessities. I am so glad you and Dr. Clarkson were able to join us, considering how last minute our invitation was."

"And it was generous of you to invite us," Isobel paused, thinking. "You know, Mrs. Carson, I hardly believed it when you told us about Mary and Edith's scheme for the Christmas pageant. I've never seen such bad blood between two sisters in my life. If only to be a part of those good feelings, I am happy to be a part of it."

Elsie nodded, thinking. It was also an opportunity for the other woman to interact with her former daughter-in-law and the rest of the Crawleys on her own terms, rather than theirs.

"Do you have the wherewithal for another one of my confidences, Mrs. Carson?"

Elsie laughed a little. Somehow, almost without realizing it, she and this former lady were becoming friends. "Do you even have to ask, Mrs. Clarkson?"

"Well…" Isobel trailed off, and Elsie was amused to see she looked almost…bashful. "I remember you saying to me, when I asked you to stand with me when Richard and I married, that you were glad I was to be a doctor's wife again." She paused, and took a deep breath, then grinned. "Well…I've actually decided to not only be a doctor's wife but complete the studies to be a doctor myself. I've only just requested the course materials, you see, so I am not discussing it with all and sundry, as of yet."

"Why! That's _marvelous_ news, Mrs. Clarkson! Congratulations!"

"May I join you, if the pair of you are conspiring on anything interesting?" Beryl Patmore joined them by the sink, depositing several more glasses. "Lordy, I'll not put the pudding out yet. Yeh've not the clean plates for it, Elsie."

"If that's a hint to get started on the dishes, I will attempt my best, Beryl," Elsie retorted dryly.

"Don't you dare, Mrs. Carson," Isobel replied. "You know we'll all pitch in at the end of the evening and have you tidied up in no time. Mr. Carson isn't the only one recently well-versed in domestic duties. Dr. Clarkson and I don't even have a live-in maid, much to the scandal of all in the big house!"

"They're having a fine time, the lot of them, aren't they?" Beryl asked, her voice warm.

Elsie looked through the archway into the combined sitting room and study, at the happy gathering of people filling all available spaces. To her left, Charlie's desk had been pushed against the wall to create space for those who were dancing: Daisy, Thomas, Andy, Victoria Clarke and the Molesleys. On her much-loved red velvet love seat, Charlie and Francis Holmes were deep in conversation, along with Mr. Mason and Dr. Clarkson, a quartet of brandies set on the table between the four men.

"Don't leave us out of the wild fray, Beryl," Elsie chuckled, then pulled a very nice bottle of port and three small glasses from the recesses of a side cabinet.

"Do yeh always hide the good stuff, then, Elsie?"

"We all need a harmless secret or two, don't you think, Mrs. Mason?" Isobel queried, a smile tugging at her mouth as Elsie passed the petite _digestif_ glasses around.

Beryl paused and really examined the other woman's face. Elsie knew was because she wasn't entirely sure if there was condescension in the question or not. For the first time, she was struck by her own role in both the world's burgeoning democracy and the worn but still strong remnants of the stratified way of living that had governed England for so very long. She realized that this was a world where she, Elsie, may feel friendship towards each of these women, who may have no reason or inclination to feel it towards each other.

Beryl took the proffered drink from Elsie and looked directly at them. "To be frank, Mrs. Clarkson, what's friendship between women comprised of, if not a few harmless, happy secrets, now and then?"

She raised her glass, and they toasted each other, the housekeeper, the farmer's wife and the soon-to-be-doctor.

And Elsie's heart was full, to brimming, just like her little house.


	6. More Than a Welcome

Chapter 6 – More Than a Welcome

The house was overcrowded, and it bothered him, but not as much as he felt it should. Their tidy dinner party of six had expanded to double that, all within the past forty-eight hours. The former Lady Grey was here with her doctor husband, giggling in the kitchen alongside Elise and Beryl Mason.

His desk had been pushed aside for dancing, which was currently comprised of Thomas Barrow and Daisy Parker showing everyone some new-fangled thing that looked like a child drowning and a girl in a three-piece suit with hair as short as his changing the records on their Victrola at lightening speed.

The man sitting beside him was the most perplexing for him to sort out. He'd met Francis Holmes on a dozen or so occasions over the past few months and found himself liking the man – very much, in fact – despite his deep-seated misgivings. He knew Elsie was rather fond of him as well, which, begrudgingly, made him warm up to the tailor and shop owner perhaps more quickly than he would have otherwise.

"Thank you for having us all over tonight, Mr. Carson," the younger man was saying. "I know you weren't intending for such a large – nor boisterous – gathering." Francis grinned over at the gathered dancers.

"They are having a grand time though, aren't they?" Charles followed his gaze and really looked at the gathering of younger people by the window, dancing, clapping, singing along to the music. It was rather lovely, and it tugged at something deep inside of him, that part of him that could never quite forget those whirlwind years on the stage, the feeling of Alice's hand in his. And, if he was honest with himself, the way that Elsie often made him feel, her boldness, her loose interpretation of the rules of life and society.

"Indeed, Mr. Holmes," he cleared his throat, then decided to press on. "I don't know if my wife has shared all of my secrets yet, but I had an aunt who was a successful, if not necessarily famous, stage actress and singer. She was magnificent, though she hardly ever followed the rules. I remember, as a lad, right after starting at Downton, seeing her on the stage in a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. She was breath-taking. And a terrible rule-breaker" he surprised himself by sharing this much with the younger man, but thought of his Aunt Charlotte, his namesake, her tall, bold figure and the smell of rose water and cigarettes that always seemed to envelop her like a cloud.

"Rules are important, Mr. Carson. They certainly have their place," Francis responded, a smile creasing his bearded face. "But you must admit, when you bend them – or maybe, even break them – those are the most interesting times, the most magnificent. Certainly, your theatrical aunt agree, I am guessing?"

"I suppose not," he conceded, feeling like he should be irritated by the younger man's words and confidence, but being wholly unable to be so. "But you must realize, Mr. Holmes, you are speaking to someone who was the butler of one of the grand houses of England for over thirty years. My livelihood _was_ following the rules. Without them I'd not have had a living."

Francis burst out laughing, then said, "Mr. Carson, just right. Thomas said nearly the same thing to me not very long ago. You're cut from the same cloth, the pair of you." He glanced over at Downton's current butler, and Charles couldn't help but be mildly discomfited by the frank affection he saw on Francis Holmes' countenance.

"I would hope not," he replied automatically, then chided himself. He _promised_ Elsie he would be polite, and he endeavored, as best as he could, to be kind. This man, and Thomas, were his guests, _their_ guests, and his wife would be none too pleased if he insulted them. No matter his jumbled feelings on the subject of their relationship.

Much to his surprised, Francis burst out into jolly laughter. So much so, both Thomas and Elsie glanced over at the pair of them, then grinned across the room at each other. His wife even winked at him, cheeky one that she was.

"Oh, I know so, though not in some obvious ways, as you so rightly point out," Francis was still smiling at him, and it made him ashamed of his rudeness.

"I should not have said that, Mr. Holmes, not even in jest, and I apologize," he replied, feeling that some of the fun and ease had left the conversation.

"Apology gladly accepted, Mr. Carson, and entirely unnecessary," the younger man added, leaning forward. His warm face grew serious, his bushy eyebrows pulling downward.

"I mentioned that you and Thomas were of similar mind because he admires you so much, Mr. Carson. You lot from the grand house up and beyond are the family he never had, you see? He's not been in touch with his own for years and years. The only person from his childhood is dear Phyllis over there, and certainly he is lucky ten times over to have her in his life. And it was never quite right, even when he was a child. Nor for me either, or Clarke. We were always wrong, through and through, according to those that were meant to love us," Francis shook his head.

"So you need not apologize for your discomfort, Mr. Carson, because despite it, you have welcomed me, and Thomas, and Clarke, into your home. You have fed us and poured us drinks and cleared your desk away for dancing and let us commandeer your Victrola. You have been our friend. You have decided – perhaps, with the help of your wife – that a person is made up of many things, and you don't have to like or agree with them all to care about them. And to Thomas, you have been more than a friend. You have been his inspiration."

Charles didn't think he could speak. He felt ridiculously close to tears.

"Your aunt would be rather proud of you, I think," Francis concluded, nodding. "Your wife certainly is."

"Mr. Holmes," he began, entirely uncertain as to what was going to come out of his mouth next. "I would be most obliged if I could come to your shop for a new holiday suit. I feel confident you and Miss Clarke could outfit me exceptionally well."

"It would be my pleasure, Mr. Carson," Francis was smiling again.

Suddenly, Elsie was standing over them, her warm figure at his elbow.

"How are we, then, gentlemen? There's an enormous pile of dishes to be done, but we're soldiering on with the pudding, in any case," she laughed, placed one hand on his shoulder, smiling down at him.

"Pudding sounds delightful, Mrs. Carson, but I'd rather like a dance with you, if you'd care to?" Francis stood, extended his hand to Elsie, which she took willingly.

"You'll not mind being usurped for a tune or two, Charlie?"

"Not in the least," he smiled up at her, and she leaned over, surprising him with a brief kiss on his forehead. "As long as you don't expect _me_ to do the dishes whilst you're dancing."

Their laughter filled his ears, but it was his heart that was full.


End file.
